Demons Dance In John Hamish Watson's Eyes
by Rose O' Sharon
Summary: Something has happened to John . . . something dark


A/N: DarkVampire!John

I have seen a lot of Vampire!Sherlock stories, but not one (I'm sure it's out there, I just haven't found it) John!Vampire stories. So I'm going to try something new for me, and it's going to be completely off the cuff with no … okay, not too much editing.

So, after the fact, I seemed to have gotten a little carried away here. I would set this story at prolly a NC-14 simply for the violence level because this kind of got a little … okay, a LOT darker than I thought it would at first. There's the 'S' word and the 'H" word used too, but just to be safe, I used the 'T' rating. If anyone deigns to comment on it, and believes the rating should be raised, feel free. :D Also, surprisingly, for me at least, this story is NOT slash . . .

Please keep in mind this is a high rated horror story and kind of gross in one spot . . . or two . . .

Also, there is a mention of Reichenbach . . . but it's basically in passing as well as for Season 1 Episode 1 . . .

One last note: I'm American, so if you're looking for a jumper, it's a sweater . . . ;)

P.S. Fixed a few mistakes I'd been too lazy to fix before . . . so I republished it . . .

**Demons Dance in John Hamish Watson's Eyes**

"Oh. I wouldn't do that if I were you," a chilling voice, completely devoid of emotion, cut through the darkness. Both Sherlock and the man sneaking up on him with a machete turned around and faced the speaker.

It was obvious from the look on the big, burly, and obviously intelligence-impaired criminal's face that the view was nowhere near what the auditory had implied, and he laughed.

He outweighed the speaker by at least a hundred pounds and towered over him by a foot and a half. In fact, the speaker looked to be in his mid-40's, slightly soft in the middle, with a round, almost angelic face. The newcomer was going to be no problem, obviously, and if he needed to dispatch two men that night, well he wouldn't mind doing a freebie.

"John?" Sherlock said as he frowned at the raspy, almost growled tone, and hoped that he could deal with the shorter man before things could get really ugly. However, he suspected that it was already too late.

Almost against his will, he read the calm, almost frozen set of his friend's face, homed in on the the arrow-like gaze of disdain with which John regarded the no-account criminal before him, and the lips that curved upward in a calculating and cruel smile.

Sherlock frowned and knew that he'd never get used to that look; not on John's face. Oh, Sherlock had worn that look, grown up wearing that look, and it actually worked for him what with his narrow eyes, sharp cheekbones, long neck, and whipcord like body; but John, John never looked good wearing cruelty.

Sherlock was supposed to be the cruel one; the one who looked at people and spoke to people as if they were mere objects put on the Earth to annoy him and get in his way. John, however, had been the warmth and caring. He was apologies, politeness to the idiots Sherlock was forced to deal with on a daily basis, and the 'good' half of their strange duo.

Truthfully, he had been Sherlock's conscience when Sherlock hadn't bothered to want one, or even know that he'd needed one. However, that was in the past, and Sherlock knew there was no use dwelling on what had been; not anymore. Here and now, all he could hope to do was some kind of damage control, and he, ever the calm, always in control of himself and his emotions, man, was suddenly very . . .

Oh no.

He refused to say the word 'scared', even in his own head, and certainly not when it pertained to his flatmate. However, maybe, just maybe, somewhere in the dark recesses of his Mind Palace, he _could_ admit to being nervous. After all, things that were out of the ordinary, even by his and John's definition of the word, were allowed to bring on a small case of nerves . . . and this was certainly out of _anyone's_ definition of ordinary.

"I thought you were on a . . . out looking for a . . ." Sherlock paused, knowing the euphemism they used for John's adopted lifestyle was hardly adequate, but it was the only one he was willing to use. "Date?" Sherlock glanced at the man who held the machete, and noted that the big man was thoroughly confused as to why the little newcomer to the 'party' wasn't running away in fear of him - or at the least, hadn't pulled out some kind of weapon to use against him. Sherlock had actually been hoping the big, lumbering moron would take their conversation as the distraction it was meant to be and for once in his miserable life do the sensible thing and run away as fast and as far as his large feet could carry him . . . not that, that would exactly help him. John was quite fast and would easily be able to chase the big man down without breaking into a sweat . . . not that he was even capable of sweating.

Perhaps John would permit a small experiment . . .

Distracted as he was by his own thoughts, he barely heard the coldly amused chuckle that left his friend as he nodded in Sherlock's direction. "Yes," he answered patronizingly and Sherlock knew he was being indulged. "I was planning on . . . eating out," his smile widened, and Sherlock could have sworn he saw a flash of red in his friend's dark blue eyes. "I just hadn't decided on who," he chuckled and shook his head. "I mean, _what,_ yet." Suddenly the amusement was g and in it's place was a tone that Sherlock knew well, and knew that it boded nothing good for either him _or_ the criminal.

"But then Lestrade called me and said you'd disappeared," John shook his head lazily as if at a particularly naughty child and tilted his head at Sherlock. "And I had to come out and find you. Why do you do this to me, Sherlock?" He stepped forward exactly three deliberate steps and stopped. "You've only been back three weeks and already you're trying to get yourself killed." John's back and shoulders straightened and his face was quickly and completely devoid of any kind of expression. "I thought we'd agreed," his voice dropped, and Sherlock flinched as he saw the flashes of red were back. "You weren't going to do that again. You _know_ I don't like it when you defy me like this."

"I hate to interrupt this little BDSM lover's spat," the criminal snarled and brandished the machete at the two. "But I've got orders to kill him, and if I have to off you too, then I will . . ."

"Do you know that I was in the Army?" John asked the man pleasantly. "If I were normal, I could kill you at least six ways that I can remember right now off the top of my head and all without a weapon. I've even taken him down," he inclined his head briefly at Sherlock and his grin widened. "But now I'm _not_ normal, and there are sooooo many more ways I can think of," he smiled and his voice dropped almost to a sensual whisper as he moved slightly forward.

"John, we need him alive," Sherlock shook his head. "He knows where the Boss is."

"Not normal? What's he mean, 'not normal'? What the hell's wrong with him!?" The Criminal was clearly getting rattled and he looked between John and Sherlock bewildered. In his entire experience and existence, everyone had been frightened of him. He was _always_ the one in control of these types of situations, and the little man in front of him was clearly NOT frightened of him, and though he tried not to show it that fact scared the crap out of him.

The analytical side of Sherlock found the situation to be quite unique. Most people had turned to John: plain, comforting, normal-seeming John for comfort and to ward them against the brilliant genius freak that was Sherlock Holmes. Now people were turning to _him_ to protect them from this . . . creature . . . this twisted dark being that was so much more than anything anyone had experienced, and truth to tell, no one really wanted to. However, there would be no comfort for them from him. No, there couldn't be because even he, with his brilliant mind, quick reactions, ability to read anything from almost anyone, was unable to even begin to understand this cold, cruel being his best friend had become. There were no more facets to John; everything was distinctly black and white. You were either for him or you were against him and very seldom did one get to choose which it was; that honor was reserved only for John and if he had decided you were against him, then you could start planning your own funeral because you'd be having it . . . soon.

"Okay," John nodded deceptively affably, completely ignoring the criminal's panicky behavior. "I see. But you know I can get that information directly from him, right?" John's grin widened, and he re-focused his attention on the criminal and started forward. "I mean, all you had to do was ask. I'll get him to talk. You know I can and he won't lie. It's going to be a little . . ." he snickered and it wasn't a pleasant sound. "Messy, but when has that stopped us? It certainly didn't stop you from stomping all over the cabbies arm in our first adventure to get _your_ information."

"i am forced to point out that the methods used are two completely different types," Sherlock said, and his voice dropped sadly. "I am also forced to point out that such . . . methods used to stop you. You were so much better than . . . this," Sherlock's voice was soft and John shook his head.

"Was I?" John's voice was angry and he scowled. "You seem to have forgotten that _I_ was the one who actually shot the cabbie so that you could stomp on him. I believe I was even the one who said he wasn't very nice nor was he a very good cabbie, and turned the whole thing into a joke. It's time you faced those facts you always say you so believe in, Sherlock Holmes," he pointed to himself. "This Darkness that inhabits me now was always here; always a part of me. it was just a bit more . . . civilized."

During their conversation, Sherlock had surreptitiously kept an eye on their opponent, and had seen that the entire time they were talking the man had slowly been backing away and trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. A moment later, John's eyes too were focused solely on the potential fugitive. "Oh don't be ridiculous," he snorted. "It's not like I had forgotten you. Sherlock says you're useful. You get to stay and _be_ useful . . ." His grin widened, and his eyes flashed an unmistakable deep red, as if every capillary and vein he had in his eyes all dilated and turned bloodshot at once, until there was absolutely no white visible at all, and the pupils and iris' were an unfathomable black. Sherlock watched John's tongue slide over his lips, and Sherlock knew what was coming. "Look st it this way," John continue his slow advance on the shaking criminal. "You get to satisfy his mind and my body."

"Oi!" The criminal suddenly declared and straightened. "I don't swing that way!" He raised the machete. "And if you come near me I'll hack you to pieces!"

"Oh for god's sakes!" Sherlock scowled at the criminal. "Don't threaten him! I knew you were already an idiot, but _that's_ taking it to the extreme."

"For what it's worth," John smiled at the criminal, who had his complete and undivided attention. "I'm not gay. I keep telling people this, but they just don't listen."

John sneered at the criminal and faster than he should have been able to move; certainly faster than the human eye could follow, he lunged forward and snatched the machete out of the man's hands. John gripped it by the blade and blood ran down his arms and dripped to the ground from his sliced open palms. He ignored the gashes, held up the machete and sneered.

"I saw better blades on the desert insurgents in Afghanistan," John huffed, and promptly snapped the blade in half. Carelessly, he tossed both halves across the road from where they stood in the middle of the graveyard. John smiled smugly as the criminal stuttered and Sherlock only inhaled as he steeled himself for the horror that was the next part of the show.

"That was tempered steel," the man actually stepped backward, and even his sluggish brain realized something was seriously wrong. the little man should never have been able to break that blade with his bare hands … especially when they had gashes that went across the entire length of his palms. "Your hands should have been shredded," he simpered, and once more John's face bore a cold, sadistic smile.

"I have an advanced healing system," he actually laughed and shook his head as indeed, his hands started to heal even as they watched. "Now," he stepped forward, his red eyes intense. "You've got one chance to live and escape with half your blood. We're close enough to a hospital that you can stumble there . . . provided you don't stop to rest," his smile was hateful, smug, and superior. "That's your only offer. Tell us what you know about your boss." John's handsome face seemed to morph into what could only be called an 'evil' expression as his already bloodshot eyes turned a luminous red as his lips brightened from their normal pale pink into deep scarlet, and sharp canines elongated and grew from his upper and lower jaws.

There was nothing handsome about the change. There was nothing romantic about it. There was nothing that sparkled or made one want to immediately fall in love with the visage. In fact, the evil that radiated from John hit the criminal with a wave of hatred and fear the likes of which he had never seen, felt, or heard of before, and he all but jumped backward in a mad dash to try to escape.

"What the hell ARE you!?" The criminal all but screamed and backed away, trying to run, but Sherlock knew that time was well past. "And I can't rat the boss! He'll kill me!"

"And I'll kill you if you don't," John's chuckle was maniacal as his blood-red eyes suddenly focused firmly on the man's throat, and he licked his lips as his fingers curled into talons and his teeth glinted in the dim light. He looked nothing less than bestial, and Sherlock couldn't stop the gasp of distress that left him at John's transformation.

"No, John. Stop. Not again. I_t . . . he's_ not worth this! No one is!" Sherlock had to try. He had to get John's attention somehow. It hadn't happened often, but sometimes, just sometimes, he'd been able to pull his gentle John from the mind . . . the jaws . . . of this . . . creature. "Gods, John listen to me! You have to stop! You might not come back this time! John!"

"No!" The man . . . former man now something else entirely, hissed angrily and clenched his hands into tight fists. "Not this time! This time I'm calling the shots! You don't get to tell me what to do. Not anymore!" John turned his entire attention to the taller, dark-haired man, and Sherlock, for the first time, knew the horror of having that evil visage turned on him and he knew his John was gone. "After what you did to me, Sherlock Holmes . . . after you let me watch you die and not _once_ in that whole time you were gone, let me know you were alive . . . after you let me die inside so badly that I let them turn me into _this,"_ he indicated his changed body. "To all but sell my own _soul_ to try and get you back, only to find out _you weren't even gone_! So, Mr. Sherlock Holmes o Baker Street, You. Owe. Me. This!"

"And he was going to kill you," John, or the beast that currently resided in John's body as Sherlock liked to think of it, for he certainly didn't want to believe that this creature was his gentle, good, kind John, calmed almost immediately, and turned to gaze hatefully at the now all but sobbing criminal. "He was going to take you away from me again, and I won't allow that. _Nothing_ will _ever_ take you away from me again."

"John," Sherlock's voice was a harsh whisper, but he knew there was no bringing John back until the Vampire had accomplished its will, and Sherlock was suddenly impaled by one look, and his words and actions immediately ceased.

_"This_ time you will _not_ interfere. You will _not_ move until I say so," John ordered harshly. Sherlock couldn't stop his muscles from obeying the sharp, raspy directive and he resigned himself and the criminal to their fates. There was absolutely nothing that he could do until John released him from the hateful mental thrall.

With Sherlock 'safely' out of the way, John focused his evil gaze back on the criminal and laughed with maniacal and insane delight. Had he been able to, Sherlock would have sighed. He missed John's laugh; his real one, not this cold, inhuman parody, and wished with everything in him that his dearest friend had never met the one John had called, until the creature had tried to claim Sherlock and take him away from John, 'Mistress Mary'. Sherlock wanted desperately to delete _that_ confrontation from his mind, but knew that he had to keep every bit of knowledge; good and bad, he had on John so he could work on a solution and free his friend from its evil influence.

The criminal never had a chance. Quite possibly, he would have been killed quickly, even mercifully, if such a thing could be said for what John was, _except_ for the fact that he had targeted Sherlock specifically for death. Even john's vampire nature was somewhat laid back and he carried a certain . . . respect, sort of, for Sherlock and his wishes . . . or at least he had more of a tendency to be somewhat more open to suggestions from the Consulting Detective. However, if Sherlock's life were in danger, then all bets were off, and the vampire came out in full force and only the death of the one John saw as a threat to his best friend who had so recently come back from the dead, in a manner of speaking, brought out the complete and unreasoning rage of the _truly_ un-dead.

Sherlock supposed he should probably count his blessings where he found them.

It looked so gentle; it really did. John just reaching out with his hands and pulling the man down by his lapels until he fell to his knees on the ground before him, both hands cupped around the man's head and John gazed, just simply gazed directly, without blinking, into the man's eyes.

Sherlock knew though that was much _more_ than what it looked like. Sherlock knew that it was ugly. It was agonizing. It was looking into death itself and knowing you were never going to be good enough for it and the torment would never, ever end.

Demons danced in John Hamish Watson's eyes and Hell was their stage, while the petty simpleton who had tried to take John's friend was their puppet. Sherlock himself had been on the receiving end of that carnivorous, rapacious gaze once and only briefly, thank the gods, because John had seen fit to punish him for 'that Reichenbach stunt' as he had called it. It had been only for a few seconds, but Sherlock shivered for hours afterward, while John treated him ever so benevolently for shock.

It didn't take long for the criminal to crack, though John held his gaze a bit longer than was absolutely necessary and if John hadn't held him in his Mind Thrall, Sherlock knew the criminal's screams would have, quite literally, woken the dead.

Soon, they knew everything they wanted to know, and Sherlock knew what was going to come next. He also knew there was no way he could prevent it … and truthfully, after some of what he heard, he had reconsidered attempting to keep the man; or any of his compatriots for that matter, alive, whether it was through John or his own contacts.

"Are there any parts you're going to want to keep?" John asked Sherlock as he swept his eyes over the soon to be corpse, as he all but vibrated with the need to take, and Sherlock was forced to admire his flatmate's restraint even as felt the mental hold over him slip.

"No," he whispered, unwilling to validate his partner's insanity with his participation, and John shrugged as he proceeded to savor his kill.

John had no rhyme or reason when he fed off those he killed. Sometimes he tried to be refined, and did his best to try and be like the vampires in the movies and books, who somehow managed to make only two small holes with teeth that weren't anywhere near the right position and therefore impossible to actually do in real life, sometimes he just ripped out the entire throat and let the blood gush down his throat as if it were being pushed out of some kind of grisly fountain, and sometimes he didn't even go for their necks all. Sometimes he just reached into the body and took whatever organ he felt like chewing on at the time.

This time was no different. This time it was the liver and as the rich warm blood ran over his friend's hands and body, the criminal bled out, unable to scream . . . out loud at least.

Sherlock silently vowed he'd put a stop to it; all of it. He knew that somewhere, deep down in the monster that his friend had become, was the old John, he'd actually seen brief glimpses, such as when he'd treated him so solicitously after using his Dark Gaze, who was horrified at himself and begged for death to free him and let him go. However, he was John's best friend. There was no way he could just kill John . . . not even after witnessing the horrors that he had perpetrated. The fact that he had perpetrated them only on . . . well, if one had to justify, people who were really in need of being removed from the populace for the safety and well-being of said populace, helped to assuage his own conscience in the matter. However, until Sherlock could free himself for longer than five minutes at a time, then there was no way he'd be able to free John, and he would have to continue to bide his time until the vampire finally dropped his guard.

"I think you should call Mycroft now," John said, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his blood-covered sweater. "Have him clean this mess up so _we_ can get back to work."

Sherlock felt his muscles let go as John released him from his mental hold, and he stumbled forward. Hands that were once more warm and compassionate, caught him and held him up until he stabilized, and once more, familiar blue eyes gazed into his with a painful reminder of the gentle friend that John Watson had once been.

FIN


End file.
